Why I Really Don’t Care That My Christmas Is Weird

I recently left the Mormon church (which is a story in and of itself and one I plan to tell in the near future). In the meantime, it is currently Christmastime, and for the first time in my 51 years of life, I’m not sure that I believe in the meaning of Christmas. And I really don’t care that I don’t care.

Weird.

I was raised in what was considered by Mormons to be a Christian home. Most people who are not Mormon (but know anything about Mormons) knows that the Mormon version of Christ is different from pretty much every other Christian denomination. “My Jesus is Different From Yours” is also a story for another time. The point that I’m really trying to make in this writing is that from the time I was born, Christmas to me was all about Jesus. And now, I’m not sure what it’s about, but more importantly, I really don’t care.

Although Christ was a big part of Christmas growing up, my family didn’t exclude the secular traditions. We definitely did the Santa thing, as well. My mom was a big believer in the Spirit of Ol’ St. Nick. We left cookies out for the big guy in the red suit (as well as carrots for the reindeer). He left us presents both under the tree and in our stockings. And when we were old enough to know “the secret”, we were made honorary Santa’s helpers and got to stay up later than the little kids and help stuff stockings (I’m the oldest of seven so there was always someone younger who still believed).

But, my parents always made sure that amongst the fun and make believe, we always focused on the true meaning of Christmas, the birth of the baby Jesus. Special significance was placed on the Nativity Story — my younger brothers and I acting it out every Christmas Eve, as my father read the story from the book of Luke in the New Testament.

I was the only girl in the family (if you were paying attention, that means I have SIX brothers!) so I always played Mary, the mother of Jesus. The next brother down from me was always Joseph, her husband. The next brother down from him would typically be a wise man. There was a large gap between brothers two and three (due to a divorce and remarriage) and each of the next three brothers were born a few years apart, but all in the Fall, making for many years where we had a living “baby Jesus”. The in-between years a doll would fill the spot as the younger boys outgrew the role of the baby and took on the role of shepherds. We wore bathrobes and towels tied on our heads, imitating the headdress of ancient times. It was a Big Deal every year!

We always had Christmas music playing in the house during the holidays, both spiritual and secular, bringing out my mom’s cherished vinyl records. We’d sing along as we baked holiday goodies and we would watch Christmas movies together as a family. There was always a different “spirit” about the house at Christmas time with the decorations, music, and smells of the season. I especially loved the Christmas carols that were about Jesus and how he was our Savior, born in a stable in Bethlehem. Of course, being a singer, I loved all of the Christmas songs and would sing along to Barbra Streisand, The Carpenters, and Amy Grant. But special significance was attributed to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and their rendition of Handel’s Messiah, including the Hallelujah Chorus.

I continued all of these traditions with my children after marrying and raising my own family. With my family dynamics being so different than the family I grew up in, we didn’t have the living baby Jesus “actors”, so I think it may have lost some of its charm with my own kids a little bit sooner than I would have liked. But, my husband still read the story from the Bible to our children on Christmas Eve and we made a special effort to teach our kids that Christmas was about Christ and not just about Santa and presents.

So, fast forward to Fall 2019, when my world came crashing down. I had discovered hidden facts about the Mormon church that led me to realize that everything I had been taught throughout my life was a farce. With Christmas looming ahead, I was lost as to what to believe about anything and everything. I became unsure as to what was truth and what was fiction. Is there a God? Some kind of higher power? The Book of Mormon is all lies, what about the Bible? Is Jesus real? Is he really the Son of God? Did he really atone for my sins?

I just don’t know.

So, Christmas became really weird for me this year. Thankfully three out of my four kids (the ones who are coming home for Christmas this year), have already left the Mormon church, so I don’t have to worry about them watching me go through this faith transition. My husband is still in the church (again, a story for another time). It’s complicated, but he supports my decision to leave.

I still went ahead and put up Christmas decorations for my kid’s sakes for when they will be coming home to visit for the holidays, but I kept it very simple. Other than that, I haven’t done all of the usual things I would typically do at Christmastime. I just haven’t felt the “spirit of Christmas” that used to be so important to me. I’ve kept gift shopping simple (with my kid’s blessings). Gone are the Christmas carols, the holiday baking, the traditional Christmas movies (I have indulged in a few Hallmark Christmas movies, but nothing like years past).

I just haven’t cared.

In the past, I always loved holiday specials on TV… not this year. Driving around town to look at Christmas lights… gone. Going out to do Christmas activities, such as Zoo Lights… nope. My heart just isn’t in it. But, instead of feeling depressed about it (like I thought I would), I have just felt, well… apathetic.

It’s just been… weird.

I don’t know how else to describe it. I honestly could just take it or leave it, which is so not me. At least not the old me. And I find it so weird that I’m perfectly okay with not caring. Mind you, I do look forward to spending time with my family and doing some of our favorite Christmas Day traditions (brunch out at a restaurant and a newly released movie in the theater), but as for the rest of it… I couldn’t care less. Maybe I’m just numb from my recent religious trauma. Maybe I’m in shock. Who knows? Maybe next year will feel more normal. Or at least better. Or not.

Who cares?